Page 26 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She doesn’t argue. Just follows me to the service door to the cremation room. When I open the chamber, she leans in to look.

“Damn,” she says. “Looks like hell with better tile.”

I load the first bag onto the tray.

She watches, arms crossed, a muscle jumping in her jaw. Not regret. Not guilt. Something else. “Does it bother you?” she asks softly.

“That you killed them?” I ask.

She nods.

“No,” I say, too easily. “But I’d like to know why you chose each one. Not because I doubt you. I just like… context.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “The one with the bunion told me I’d be prettier if I smiled before he attempted to fuck me in my kitchen. I made spaghetti that night. With real garlic bread, not the frozen shit.”

“Ah.”

“The one that sloshed cheated on his wife with six different women and had a gun under his car seat. He thought I owed him a blowjob in the theater because he paid for a matinee.”

“Reasonable.”

“And Steve… Steve had a God complex and a porn addiction and wanted to film me strip dancing.”

I glance at the cremator, the fire beginning to take. “Did you?”

“I don’t strip dance on a third date,” she says sweetly. “I buried him next to the compost.”

I smile.

“I knew it going in. That they were assholes. It’s why I picked them.” She meets my gaze, fearless. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re interesting. Damaged, maybe. But not broken.”

That gives her pause.

I gesture toward the next bag. “Shall we?”

By the time the final bag is ash, the room smells like scorched rot and industrial cleaner. And I know why she does what she does. What I don’t know is who did it to her first. But there’s time for that. He’ll make his way to my chamber. Those ashes I’ll save.

Jennifer helps me mop. She just moves with me, silent, efficient, a little too comfortable dragging bloodwater toward the floor drain like she’s done it before.

“Do you do this for all your dates?” she asks.

“Only the ones who bring icing on the side still warm.”

She snorts and keeps mopping.

When the last drag of water spirals down the drain and the floor gleams like something newly baptized, I toss the mop aside and peel off my gloves.

Jennifer’s peeling hers off with her teeth. It shouldn’t be hot. It is. God help me, I want her to do that with my belt.

She glimpses up at me. There’s dirt on her cheekbone and a smear of something darker near her ear. Not blood, just sweat, maybe. But the image is still feral.

She looks radiant.

I reach into my coat pocket for a soft cloth. She freezes as I step close.

“You missed a spot,” I say, wiping gently at her skin. “There.”

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